Sent Away to Die
by Thryah J. Lockehart
Summary: They found out he could channel and it destroyed his whole life. A WoT fanfic.
1. Sent Away to Die

A/N: I don't own the Wheel of Time copyrights, and I had no part in writing the series, this is just a fanfic.  
  
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Yaema knew he wouldn't last much longer. He knew his life was about to end. His worthless life, they had sent him away to die, for something he hadn't even wanted to have. It wasn't his fault he could channel. That didn't matter to them though.  
  
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It had started when he was five. Mysterious things happening all around him, things bursting into flame, dust storms appearing without wind, anything was possible. By age fifteen he knew he had a special power, he knew he was different. At age sixteen everyone else in the village knew. He hadn't meant for them to know. It had been a secret for so long. It was impossible to hide a building that had blown up. He was the only person nearby, they knew it had to be him.  
Later that year they had sent him towards the blight, to spend his last time in a place where he could do no harm, only do good by destroying trollocs and myrdraal in his insanity. He had learned to control it somewhat. He could talk with the voice in his head, the voice no longer tried to take over, they shared the body.  
He traveled south after they sent him away. If he could not live with his people, then he would not consider himself an Aiel. He bought a sword from a Caerhienin, and continued on to the Blight. He knew that he couldn't control his insanity much longer, it was starting to get harder to control, more things were happening without his meaning to do something. His emotions could kill, and he no longer wished to kill people.  
He finally made it to the Blight. He id not know how he knew, the land was the same dry hot dead land he had grown up in, but in one step controlling it had become a fight, a fight he knew he could not win. The further in he went, the harder it became to control it. He ran out of food, he ran out of water. Then he stumbled upon a group of trollocs. He killed them all. Every last one of them, they were all dead.  
He had been so long without meat, the trollocs were meat. He knew they were vile creatures made purely for evil purposes. Even so, he couldn't help himself, he had to eat it. He ate trolloc meat that night, and he drank their filthy drinks. He grew to hate himself for it, for he had just lengthened his life in eating. He was no longer on the brink of death.  
He still had the sword he had bought, he was clad only in a loincloth. He had lost so much weight, his body would just not die. His hair was long and hadn't been cleaned in monthes, he had bitten his fingernails until they were short again. He hadn't seen trollocs for days, much less a myrdraal, or any other such life.  
About one month later he spotted an army of trollocs and myrdraal to the west. They were heading right for his location. He knew they didn't know he was there, but he also knew they would find him in this flat, desolate, barren land.  
Within 4 hours they had set upon him. He had channeled something, he did not know what, but it had taken so much out of him. He felt a loss, and he could no longer channel. He knew something had happened, something he had heard about in the stories. He was burned out. He had channeled so much that he had burned the power right out of him. He had also taken half the army down with it.  
He battled for hours, hacking, stabbing, killing anything that came towards him. His body was stained red with blood, trolloc bodies lay all about, motionless, blood pouring forth from the fresh corpses. There was a smaller amount of myrdraal, still twitching, almost all of them, even shriveled up as they were from the loss of all their corrosive, black blood. They would not die so easily.  
He could no longer see, and hearing was becoming a problem. He had lost his left arm a while back, it felt like years, he had lost track of all amount of time. His left leg was suddenly pushed out from underneath him, he could feel it, a long gash going down from his thigh to his ankle, crimson blood pouring out, mixing with the trolloc and myrdraal blood all around. His leg burned with the agony, from the pain of being cut, and from the corrosive blood touching the broken skin.  
He screamed out in pain, a long, high-pithed scream that seemed to last for hours, all the while stilling slicing blindly at the bodies trying to kill him. A bloody mass suddenly fell upon him, a trolloc body, he knew from the stench.  
Then, as quick as lightning, he felt detached, as if he was watching the battle from somewhere else. He looked down, and he saw his arm, and his head, poking out from beneath the body of a dead trolloc. The army was moving on. He knew something was wrong, he didn't understand how he wasn't in his body, then he realized it. He was dead. 


	2. Second Chance

Yaema had been floating in the odd mist above the battleground for days. He had wept for his lost life in that time, mourning over a loss that was meant to be. He had known he would die ever since he had found out he could channel Saidin, ever since he had known he would go crazy some day. Even so, he wept, he had never guessed that he would have had to see his own dead body. He had thought that with death would come an end to his torment.  
Yaema felt a strong hand placed upon his shoulder. He jerked around at a nearly inhuman speed, sword flying out of its sheath ready to be used, he drew on Saidin and prepared to kill whoever this violater of his personal space was. His sword rang out as it met with this newcomers blade, sparks flew about, his normal blade versus this newcomers curved blade marked with a heron.  
Suddenly it dawned on him, he was drawing on Saidin, he could channel once again! His sword clattered to the floor, all danger forgotten; he fell to his knees and he cried tears of joy, no longer were they tears of sadness.  
Yaema looked up after drying his face on his sleeve, he gazed into the face of this newcomer, this blademaster. Somehow he knew, he was looking up at the face of Artur Hawkwing, long dead kind of the wetlanders. "Yaema, it is time to go. You have been chosen to join us. We are the heroes of old, living in Tel'aran'rhiod until the Horn of Valere is blown or we are reborn." All Yaema could do was sit there and stare up at Artur in awe.  
Artur offered a hand to help Yaema up. Yaema took it and got up, grunting as his joints popped, he had gotten stiff sitting over the battlefield for so long. Artur chuckled, "As you can see, you are nearly as alive now as you were in your body, discomfort will still bother you, but eventually you will be born into another body, and not remember your old self until after you have died once again. This is how you must live now, many of us have hundreds of memories from different lives that we have lived. You will know sorrow, and you will know to accept it, for the Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills. Just remember, we need you in Tarmon Gai'don, or else you would never have been chosen. Retrieve your sword and we will go, you have many people to meet." As he started walking away Artur mumbled to himself, loud enough so only he could hear, "Who'd have thought, an Aiel blademaster and channeler...A member of the Heroes of Old."  
Raem quickly retrieved his sword and walked over to Artur as fast as he could without appearing overenthusiastic. First he had died, now he was semi-alive and traveling with Artur Hawkwing! Now he knew, his life was worth something, and he was being given a second chance at showing it. 


End file.
